Domesticated
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Three times Rebecca Gibbs was totally useless at traditionally female housework. Or, 'that marriage in which Gibbs was the wife'. This is sort of a 3 part tag to 'Check,' but it actually turns kind of heavy. Gibbs/Rebecca - or as a reviewer called it the other day (and I like) "Gibecca". (still no character button for Rebecca).
1. Laundry

_a/n: so ... this kind of fell together. my muse is going wild. i'm having fun. let me say though - a bit of the banter here was hard to reconcile with the (conflicting) canon in the show ... so just bear with me. recent episodes don't mesh with episodes like Kill Ari, Enemies Domestic, etc. so this (whole story) is operating strictly on the most recent episode, which puts Rebecca as the 3rd wife, 2nd ex. placing her in the mid-nineties, pre-Jenny, post Diane. onwards:_

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><p><strong><em>"You are talking about a woman who doesn't know how to work a dishwasher."<br>_****_.  
><em>****_-Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season 12 Episode "Check."_**

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><p>These days, when he didn't need to stay at work, he didn't necessarily spend time thinking up a reason to plant himself behind his NCIS desk and avoid his house; he left the Navy Yard and at a decent time and actually went home. On weekends, too, he stopped making up excuses to go into the office. He was cautiously content with his living situation at the moment – though he grudgingly doubted he could keep it together for long – and he warily spent more time at home than he had with his first ex-wife.<p>

Uncharacteristically, he'd been doing nothing all day; he'd fallen asleep watching television on the couch – and Rebecca had been in the basement, painting something – or that's what he thought she said; he never really knew what the hell Rebecca was up to.

He didn't know how long he'd been out when he felt her sit down on the edge of the sofa and crawl over him, prowling like a jungle cat, until her nose nudged against his collarbone and she blew in his ear.

"Jay," she murmured softly.

She pressed her palms against his shoulders and jolted them a little, shaking him.

"_Jay_," she drawled, tilting her head.

He opened his eyes and was confronted with a mass of her silky, straight, red-gold hair. He lifted one arm and put it behind his head, propping himself up a little, and grunted, indicating he was awake.

She pulled her head back, and smiled at him coquettishly.

"Is laying on your ass all day that exhausting?" she teased abrasively.

"Got the paper this morning," he retorted, shrugging.

She looked over her shoulder at the black-and-white television, where an old western was flickering. She rolled her eyes, and he glanced down at her – she was dressed up for nothing, but she always was. He didn't think he'd ever seen Rebecca in sweatpants, and rarely saw her in jeans – she dressed up because she felt like it. It didn't make any sense; he joked about it once, and she said she did it to make him feel like a man, and he still hadn't figured out if she was kidding.

"Finish your thing?" he asked, without much interest.

Rebecca nodded. She pressed her lips to his jaw, and she smelled like perfume and –

"You drinkin' my bourbon?" he asked in her ear, feigning an angry tone.

"Had to see what the fuss is about," she answered, biting her tongue between her teeth and grinning. "You can't be artistic when you're sober, Jay," she reprimanded lightly.

He rolled his eyes a little – he was fairly sure Rebecca hated her job; that's why she had so many short-lived, intense hobbies.

She settled her hips on him, her skirt riding up her thighs as it stretched. She pursed her lips.

"What is all that wood for?" she asked.

"In the basement?" he ventured, somewhat distracted.

She nodded.

He shrugged.

"Boat."

Rebecca sighed, shaking her head.

"You didn't have to burn the last one," she chided.

"Named it after the other one."

"Hmm," Rebecca murmured. "Don't name this one after me," she said prophetically, and then shifted her hips and leaned forward to kiss him.

He put one of his hands on her lower back, tilting his head up to meet her lips.

"Jay?" she asked thickly.

He mumbled something incoherently; he was listening. She pulled back a little, and bit her lip attractively.

"I have a _thing_ Monday night, for work," she told him huskily. Her eyelashes danced a few times – was she batting them? It was the subtlest _batting_ he'd ever seen – and then she tilted her head fetchingly. "The dress I want to wear is dirty."

His fingertips pressed firmly into her lower back, and he smirked, catching her eye and giving her a look.

"You want me to do laundry?" he guessed, arching a brow at her. "That why you woke me up?"

Her lips parted, and she nodded her head sweetly, bright eyes on his.

"I'll make it worth your while," she promised seductively. "I'm hopeless at the bleaching, and the separating colours…" she trailed off comically, grinning.

"Colourblind toddler could do it, Becca."

"You know, I married you because you can do laundry."

"Can't get outta the Marines without doin' laundry," he muttered.

"I was never in the Marines," she pointed out.

It hadn't taken him long to figure out she was unfamiliar with most household chores – it seemed it was a mixture of having grown up with a maid who did everything, and a certain amount of _not giving a fuck_. He hadn't realized the extent of her total incompetence until they'd moved in together – it amused him, more than irritated him.

"I can teach you how to use the machine," he offered.

"Jay, I wear miniskirts around the house when I'm not even going anywhere – what more do you want in a woman?" she simpered, in faux exasperation. She licked her lips again, and grinned.

He slid his arm around her, bunching his fingers in her soft blouse. He didn't mind doing laundry – he didn't mind Rebecca crawling all over him in her tight clothes to coax him to do laundry – but he didn't understand how she'd lived on her own for so many years without knowing the basics of human functioning.

He didn't ask.

"I have to go to the thing, on Monday?" he asked.

She laughed shortly.

"Hell, no," she answered.

He smirked – he could definitely get used to that, since he'd been accustomed to being dragged everywhere Diane had gone, whether it had been benefit or a party or lunch with her college roommate.

He gave her a small nod – he'd do it; he'd been planning on it this weekend, anyway – mostly because he noticed her closet was getting emptier, and the basket in the hall was overflowing.

He'd get to it later tonight.

She caught her tongue between her teeth again, and pressed closer, touching her forehead to his.

"It shakes around, your old laundry machine," she murmured, catching his eye. She cut her eyes at him. "Let's have sex on it."

Scratch that; he'd do the laundry _right now._

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><p><em>-it's interesting to flesh out Rebecca. i'm still seeing her as a kind of indifferent type, who's very wary of anyone finding out she's a pretty out of control addict, which is colouring how i'm writing her; and in my head, i've pretty much decided this is the marriage (as i mentioned before) that's not Gibbs' fault, per se. i don't think he loved Rebecca much, but i do think this fell apart more due to her adultery and her problems rather than HIS. not that he's blameless. anyway.<em>

_-alexandra_

_story #242_


	2. Dishwasher

_a/n: part 2 ! notice how Gibbs is a little less tolerant of / enchanted by Rebecca this time 'round ... _

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><p><strong><em>"You are talking about a woman who doesn't know how to work a dishwasher."<br>_****_.  
><em>****_-Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season 12 Episode "Check."_**

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><p>The last thing he wanted to do when he got home from a bitch of a case was deal with a disaster – <em>disaster<em> might be a strong word, but that's what she called it – and yet the moment he walked in the front door, the strong smell of some kind of cleaner and a little yelp from the kitchen made him wary. He'd only just slammed the front door loudly, looking balefully towards the sound and the smell, when his wife poked her head around the corner and winced.

"I've had a disaster in the kitchen," she announced, one of her eyebrows going up.

He gave her a look – he had long since gotten used to Rebecca's total inability to do anything traditionally feminine, and with familiarity had come an increasing lack of tolerance – it wasn't that he expected his wife to keep house like Donna Reed, but he thought it might be less of a headache if she learned how to function like an adult.

"What happened?" he asked.

If it was mechanical, he could probably fix it, but if it was medical –

"You hurt?" he continued, without waiting for an answer as he strolled forward.

He saw the source of the overwhelming chemical smell immediately – the floor was a soapy, bubbly mess of suds and water, and the front of the dishwasher was cracked – the bottom of it was leaking, and the sink was full of murky water.

Rebecca leaned against the refrigerator, eyeing him apprehensively, one lone rubber yellow glove on her hand. The other was floating in the sink.

"Rebecca," he growled.

"I was doing the dishes," she broke in defensively. "I got something – the disposal wasn't working," she said quickly.

He stared at her.

"You broke it last week, droppin' that shot glass in it!" he reminded her.

She looked at him like he was talking nonsense, and it suddenly occurred to him that she didn't remember doing that – and for a moment he was taken aback, because he hadn't – it hadn't seemed that she was that drunk.

She flushed slightly, and then she flung her gloved hand out.

"It started filling up, so I switched to this thing," she explained, gesturing at the broken dishwasher. "It wouldn't shut all the way, and I turned it on without realizing – "

Gibbs strode over, crouching down. He didn't know where the crack had come from, but the mechanical lock was all bent and twisted; it didn't close if it wasn't set a certain way, and she must not have maneuvered it right. He frowned, ignoring the soapsuds milling around his shoes, and then he narrowed his eyes.

"You try to jam it?"

"It started spewing water and soap. I panicked!"

"What did you – did you _kick_ it?" he turned and glared at her shoes – heavy, knee-high, black leather boots, paired with one of the ever-present skirts she wore.

She gave him a defiant look, and then a sweet little grin, and then she folded her arms.

"Yes," she answered firmly. "Then it started leaking fluid," she added grudgingly. "I was … just about to call you."

Gibbs swore, glared at her shoes, and turned back to the dishwasher, staring. It was old as hell, and he wasn't particularly attached to it. He ran his hand over the crack, and then his fingers drifted, to a nick in the paint – that had come from a time Kelly fell, when she was just walking, and chipped a tooth against it. He didn't want to replace this old thing. He grit his teeth, and sat staring at the bludgeoned machine – maybe he could fix it; patch up the crack, re-work the lock mechanism.

Rebecca made an irritated noise.

"We didn't have one of these things when I was growing up – "

"Bullshit, Becca, you're younger than I am."

She cleared her throat nastily.

"My mother never taught me to use it," she snapped at him.

He didn't answer; he didn't want to talk about Rebecca's mother. She was, from what he knew, a piece of work who'd always been less than warm to Rebecca, and then died of cancer, and Rebecca had all kinds of weird guilt because she was glad the woman was dead.

He stood up, rubbing his forehead, and shrugged. He stood still a moment, sloshing suds around, and then looked around at the mess.

"It's fine," he muttered tensely. "Fine."

She looked down, and then looked away, and he noticed her cheeks were still red. He sighed, shaking his head.

"Rebecca," he said shortly. She looked at him. "Forget it," he said, trying to sound sincere.

"I wasn't trying to fuck it up," she said, he words aggressive, but her face passive – she looked a little nervous.

He felt irritation rising – she always did that; she'd almost start a fight, then she'd back off, she'd get that anxious, jumpy look, as if she were scared of him, as if she just wanted him to _like_ her without _criticizing_ her, and he knew it wasn't insecurity – it was all about her not wanting to be called out.

He did it anyway.

"You been drinking?" he asked.

"I don't _drink_ that _much_, Jay!" she burst out immediately; defensive.

He looked at her intently – they'd been married for over a year, now; he didn't have illusions about that. He wasn't sure he was ready to call her problematic, but he had an investigator's eye, and it hadn't escaped his notice that Rebecca had two drinks a day, every day – at least.

"You murdered a dishwasher," he said dryly.

His hands went into his pockets.

She looked away, chewed her lip, and then burst into anxious laughter.

"Murdered?" she repeated.

He watched her laugh for a moment, and then he realized it was an overdramatic way to put it – attaching violent motive to what was really more of a boneheaded accident – and he relaxed a little.

He put aside the irritation, and stood watching her, until she looked at him again.

"I'm really sorry, Jay."

"Don't apologize," he grunted.

She gave him a sharper look, a sparkling one – she was back; convinced she'd avoided his displeasure. She had a way of making him uncomfortable – and he was an agent, he knew the _modus operandus_ of addicts, he knew it was an indication, her deflecting her mistakes, making herself the victim so he'd back off.

He didn't ask her to stop. He let her do it – he was making her worse.

She looked down, kicked around some soap and water.

"I'll clean this up," she offered.

He gave her a look, and shook his head.

"You don't trust me with a broom, Jay?" she teased.

"It's water," he grunted, rolling his eyes, "you don't use a broom."

She chewed on her lip, and smiled sweetly; she didn't say anything. He stepped closer, thought the mess, and looked at her a moment, and then he leaned forward, and kissed her on the corner of the mouth.

She tasted like rum. He nodded, almost to himself – _gotcha, Rebecca._

"You ever heard that old joke, 'bout the dishwasher?" he muttered.

She shook her head, leaning back. He smirked.

"What's a guy do when his dishwasher won't work?" he asked.

She shrugged, tilting her head.

"Get a divorce."

She slapped him in the shoulder with her rubber-gloved hand, and oily, thick soap splattered his shirt and his neck. She gasped, apologetic, and shook of the glove, dropping it with a wet _smush_ onto the floor.

He looked down at it balefully, and then glared at her.

She gave him a fetching smile, and pleaded –

"You – just think about how _great_ I am in the sack."

He considered her a moment, smirked, and splashed some soapy water on her boots.

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><p><em>solidifying your idea of a character is a journey, so forgive me if you think how I'm writing Rebecca is inconsistent or if it sucks, lol.<em>

_-alexandra_


	3. Cooking

_a/n: and, part 3. we've sunken into some darkness, methinks._

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><p><strong><em>"You are talking about a woman who doesn't know how to work a dishwasher."<br>_****_.  
><em>****_-Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Season 12 Episode "Check."_**

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><p>He left work at breakneck speed when Fairfax County Fire Department called him; he didn't even spare a moment of explanation for Franks – he'd bear the consequences later.<p>

There was no smoke pouring from his house when he slammed his car into park in the street – his driveway was crowded with a shiny red emergency vehicle – and he took that as a good sign. His front door was wide open, and the inside of the house reeked of singed hair, hot metal, and a carbon-black fog.

"Agent Gibbs?" a burly man in uniform stopped him, hand splayed on his chest.

Gibbs nodded curtly. He cleared his throat hard.

"Is my wife here?" he asked immediately – the fireman assumed he was worried; he was asking because he knew in his gut she'd set the damn place on fire doing something stupid.

"She's alright, sir," the man said gruffly. "She's got some oil burns on her arms, but she's mostly just shaken up."

Gibbs said something under his breath and then nodded, pushing past the guy – he didn't bother asking about the damage. The kitchen was even hazier, and half of it was covered in white foam. Another firefighter was examining a heating element, and a young man was standing in the corner with Rebecca, taking her blood pressure. She saw him, and sidestepped the guy, stepping up to him. She looked at him worriedly for a moment, and then leaned forward, pressing her head into his chest. Half-heartedly, he put one arm around her.

"She okay?" he asked, ignoring Rebecca.

"Minor burns," the guy answered, folding up the device he'd been using. "She doesn't need a hospital."

Gibbs nodded in agreement; he wouldn't want to take Rebecca to the hospital; she resisted medical personnel like they had the plague – she didn't like being told there was something wrong with her, even if it had nothing to do with her addictions.

"Smoke'll clear out on its own, sir," the fireman by the stove said. "Heating element's alright; somethin' must have reacted," he explained. "It's safe to use this – maybe Mrs. Gibbs dropped somethin' in the burner, got some oil on it, lit it up," he fireman hesitated, glanced at the sink. "Alcohol can flare up pretty bad."

Gibbs noted that he'd looked over at the bottle of rum sitting ominously near the sink. He let his arm slip off Rebecca and stood still, nodding curtly again. He reached out to shake a couple of hands, and then he waited while the responders filed out, and he stepped away from his wife to look at the stove. She'd been cooking with a frying pan; there was blackened oil and grease all around, a dishtowel was charred, and whatever she'd been heating up was obliterated. He turned to her, hands in his pockets – clenched into fists.

"What the hell were you doin', Rebecca?" he asked.

"I was sick of microwaving grilled cheese, Jay – "

"You've never cooked a damn day in your life!" he interrupted harshly. "You get it in your head to grab a bottle and light up the stove?"

She folded her arms tightly against herself – a protective gesture, not a combative one, and her eyes flashed indignantly.

"You're the one always telling me to _get it together_!" she fired back nastily. "Learn to cook, learn to clean, keep your _house_!"

Gibbs gave her a withering look, gritting his teeth – she turned it on him like that; if he told her to get a grip on herself, learn how to function, operate like a grown woman, she started to manipulate it – as if he was trying to break her, make her some Stepford Wife – and the longer he lived with her, the less endearing her domestic uselessness got, the more sullen she got about it.

It wasn't adorable anymore; it wasn't amusing. She barely tried to hide her drinking; he'd watched it get this bad, and he was back to staying at work, avoiding home – here he was either the bad guy or the nurse.

"You could have burned down this house!" he barked.

She pushed a hand through her hair and thrust one of her arms out, fingers brushing against the angry red, raw burns.

"It wasn't arson!" she shouted. "Arsonists don't injure themselves!"

"You can't take care of yourself, Rebecca – you'd burn yourself _skiing_!" he snapped back.

"You could show a _little_ compassion, Jay – "

He thrust out his hand towards the stove, turning towards her aggressively. She stepped back against the sink, wincing.

"Did you spill alcohol on this?" he demanded roughly. He put his hand on her shoulder. "You want compassion?" he asked, his words hard. He grit his teeth. "You're goin' to kill yourself, Becca."

"It was just a little fire!" she burst out.

He started to shout back, and then he – he smiled, a disbelieving, resigned smile, almost a smirk; there was no use arguing with this woman. If he was a better man, he'd drag her, kicking and screaming, to get some help, but who was he to give advice, when he'd married her because some _thing_ she did – once or twice – reminded him of the one he'd lost?

He kept looking at her, and his humorless smirk faded. She was unfocused; her pupils were watery, dilated; her hands were shaking. She smelled like stale rum; she looked like she was on something else.

"You take something?" he asked. He shook her a little. "Becca, did you take something?" he repeated.

She shook her head – she didn't have a tell, but he still knew she was lying, and he grit his teeth hard. He turned her around and put his hand on the back of her head, nudging her head towards the sink.

"Throw it up," he ordered – he stepped back; he wasn't going to hang around to see if she listened.

He pulled out his phone; he had to call Franks – he couldn't go back to work, not even to escape, because as frustrated as he was – as tired, as pissed off – he couldn't leave her like this, because she really might hurt herself.

She stormed out of the kitchen, and he looked up from his phone, abandoning the call.

"Rebecca!" he barked, starting after her.

She turned around and shoved him.

"You used to leave me alone!" she growled. "You didn't _care_ if I drank – are you jealous?" she shouted, looking wild suddenly; looking scared.

He stared at her, seething under the surface. Jealous – what did he have to be jealous for?

"Jealous?" he asked out loud, his words tight. "You sleepin' around?" he demanded harshly.

She made a hoarse noise of outrage, and her cheeks flushed. She pushed at him again.

"You drink until you're blind in that basement, but I can't – "

"You drink all day!" he roared at her.

"You're never home – how would you know?" she shouted, tears bursting out of her eyes. "If I could cook – if I could do your fucking laundry and massage your feet, maybe you'd come home – "

"Jesus Christ," he swore, loudly, over her slurred tirade.

He took her arm – it was a firm, but gentle grip, and took a lot of self control for him to be so soft with his touch; he wanted to shake her until the part of her brain that did this to her was mushy and soft and broken.

"You call for another woman in your sleep, Jay!" she bellowed hoarsely. She fought against his grip. "_You_ make me drink," she seemed to seize on that with renewed vigor. "It's your fault – how am I supposed to _fuck_ my husband when he wants to call me something else – could _she_ cook, Jethro – could _Shannon_ run a dishwasher – "

Rebecca was in hysterics – alcohol-induced and magnified – and he stared at her. He didn't let go, but he watched her, and he listened, and his muscles loosened a little, and his stomach felt hollow. He knew her problem wasn't his fault; it had been there long before him.

He didn't ask when it had started.

He asked himself why he'd let it go on.

He should have never thought her domestic failures were a quirk, an idiosyncrasy; an endearing trait.

He reached out for her with his other arm, and tried to calm her down – none of it was funny anymore.

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><p><em>so, originally, this idea came to me as 3 lighthearted, funny fics. but ... the more i thought about it, the less "funny" it was that a grown woman is so clueless about functioning, you know? which is symptomatic of a long-term addict, but still. so i went with the idea of Gibbs' take on the whole thing getting darker, as he realizes this is all very harmful  sinister, etc. and rebecca losing the energy to hide it all completely, as she realizes love hasn't "fixed her." there's hints of her affair here, obviously. i'm hoping you can see how it's gotten heavier from the first little ficlet. this got more in-depth than i meant, and i'm kind of bummed i wasted a fight like that on this small thing but, hey - ! let me know how this went._

_-alexandra _


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